


Call It Even

by Band_obsessed



Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, M/M, Magic Revealed, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28861935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: “That will be all, thank you, Merlin.”Arthur’s dismissal is cold, final. His bed still lies unmade, his bath water not poured, his dinner awaiting collection in the kitchen.Merlin stops in his attempt at undressing him, holds his cape uselessly in his hands. “Arthur—““Don’t!” Arthur snaps, hard, dangerous, and Merlin clenches his jaw, swallows hard around the lump in his throat, the heat behind his eyes. “I hardly think you have the right to address me as anything but ‘sire’ at the moment. Now, leave me.”OrIn the fallout from Lancelot's sacrifice, Arthur's anger shows a new face. If only he and Merlin could both agree on its target. (Aka, magic reveal with a twist.)
Relationships: Background Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028496
Comments: 21
Kudos: 290





	Call It Even

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, this is _finally_ finished. I apologise for the delay in uploads, I had almost half a dozen assignments due for the end of my university semester, and then real life got in the way. But! It's finally here! I hope you enjoy, and sorry again for the wait.

They don’t speak until Camelot’s spires come into view. The empty saddle of Lancelot’s horse is a stake driven through the heart of any conversation they try to have. Merlin’s own quivers in his chest, slams painfully against his ribs with every beat. Guilt has never been an easy burden to bear. He looks at Arthur — alive, safe, protected — and his tongue threatens to choke him, blocks the air from his throat in a rush of remorse.

Lancelot gave his life so Arthur wouldn’t have to. So _Merlin_ wouldn’t have to. Sacrificed himself, walked into that veil, that cold, desolate plane, because he knew Merlin wouldn’t take no for an answer. Because he knew Arthur wouldn’t. Because, damn it all, it has always come down to this; a battle of defiant stubbornness, a race to the death and back again.

Merlin would lay down his life ten times over if it meant saving Arthur’s.

It seems Arthur would do the same for him.

Lancelot’s horse whinnies and Merlin bites his lip until the skin splits. Copper blooms across his tongue, turns his stomach. The tears are falling before he can stop them, running in fast rivulets down his cheeks, dropping onto the leather of his saddle. He would be ashamed if he had the energy. And if Gwaine’s eyes weren’t similarly red.

He wants to stop. Considers dismounting his horse and wandering into the woods, biding himself some time before he must bury his guilt and show his face again. But Camelot is waiting for their return, _Gwen_ is waiting for their return, and the weight of that alone is almost more than he can bear. If it is a burden on his own shoulders, gods know how heavily it rests on Arthur. Merlin cannot see his face from here. Can only see the back of his head, hair glinting gold in the setting sun, and the hard, taut line of his shoulders.

He spurs his horse ahead. It falls in line with Arthur’s a moment later. Arthur doesn’t turn but Merlin sees his fingers tightening around the reigns of his horse, the tense line of his jaw.

“It’s not your fault, Arthur,” he murmurs, tries, desperately, to find the words to make this better. To fill the absence between them.

He hadn’t meant to push Arthur away. His magic had acted for him, thrown Arthur from harm’s way before he could do something foolish. But he had pushed harder than he needed to. Had heard more than seen Arthur’s head hit the ground, his eyelids flutter closed. If he looks, really looks, at the base of Arthur’s skull he can see the beginnings of a bruise, mottled flesh and pooling blood. He’s half-tempted to heal it now, but Arthur hasn’t said anything so neither does he. For all Merlin knows Arthur believed it to be the veil’s magic, The Cailleach’s.

But there’s a tick in Arthur’s jaw. Mistrust in the lines around his eyes. Anger in the curl of his fingers. For the first time he curses his ability to read Arthur. Thinks back to not even half a day ago, how it felt to be cradled against his chest, strong and warm and _sure_. Now Arthur won’t even look at him. It hurts more than he had imagined. It hurts more than losing Lancelot, burns brighter than the guilt in his stomach at the comparison.

It would be better, Merlin thinks, if Arthur would say _something_ to him. If he would take his eyes from the horizon for even a moment, turn them on him instead. But he doesn’t. Just rides ahead, stubborn in his silence and Merlin, for the first time in his life, concedes. Lets his horse fall behind until, if he squints, the tension coiled in Arthur’s muscles loosens. Until he can imagine, for a fleeting, insecure moment, that Arthur still trusts him.

—

Arthur’s mood doesn’t improve inside the Citadel. Lancelot’s horse had come to a halt beside Gwen and Merlin watched as painful clarity dawned in her eyes, an explosion that put Camelot’s canons to shame. Her face had crumped in on itself like a shield beneath a heavy blow and Merlin suddenly hadn’t the heart to stay, his own tears lodged firmly in his throat. Not that Arthur had called him back; he had watched him slink off in the shadows with a look of disinterest so blatant that Merlin’s breath had caught.

Not that it is much better now. Arthur’s quarters may be warm but he cannot shake the cold of Arthur’s gaze, the tension coiled in his muscles as Merlin unclasps his cape, slips the fabric from his shoulders. This close and he can see the blood pooled beneath Arthur’s scalp, a mottled mess of purple and red. If he closes his eyes he can still feel his magic pushing, instinctively — can hear the sickening thud of Arthur’s head against the stone. With a rush of guilt so blinding he cannot breathe, he wonders how much more force would have been needed to kill Arthur. How close he was to cracking his skull in a desperate, manic bid to save him.

His hands shake at Arthur’s shoulders.

“That will be all, thank you, Merlin.”

Arthur’s dismissal is cold, final. His bed still lies unmade, his bath water not poured, his dinner awaiting collection in the kitchen.

Merlin stops in his attempt at undressing him, holds his cape uselessly in his hands. “Arthur—“

It is the wrong thing to say. He feels Arthur bristle, the tension in his muscles snapping in a rush as he spins, jabs his finger to Merlin’s chest so hard Merlin is sure the skin across his sternum bruises.

“Don’t!” he snaps, hard, _dangerous_ and Merlin clenches his jaw, swallows hard around the lump in his throat, the heat behind his eyes.

When Arthur continues it is controlled, more his usual stern tone than the unrestrained anger it had been moments ago. “I hardly think you have the right to address me as anything but ‘sire’ at the moment. Now, leave me.”

His hand falls from Merlin’s chest, begins to divest himself of his armour personally.

Merlin reaches for him regardless, helps him lift the chainmail from his shoulders. “But your dinner—“

“George is more than capable of fetching a plate. More competent than you, dare I say.”

The heat spreads to Merlin’s throat, builds with a pressure that borders painful. Hysterically he thinks that perhaps even the dungeons would be better than this; than Arthur’s cold indifference, this anger that Merlin hasn’t seen directed at _him_ since they first met. And even that pales in comparison — there is no teasing behind his words, no thinly veiled attraction, no flirtatious jibes. Nothing but that hard, piercing glint in Arthur’s eyes and his callous, clipped words.

“ _Sire_ , please let me—“

Arthur’s hand slams down on the wooden table, hard enough for the papers to flutter, for his quill to roll off and across the floor. Merlin watches him, wary, _terrified_ , and that feeling alone pushes the first of the tears from his eyes. Never, _never never never_ has he been scared _of_ Arthur. _For_ him, yes, plenty of times; every time he had saved his life, every time he insisted on throwing himself headfirst into danger, every tournament, every battle, every assassination attempt.

But now Merlin can’t tear his gaze from Arthur’s other hand, the one that could, at any moment, reach for his sword. The one that could run him through where he stood — drive the steel that Merlin himself had sharpened to a point and polished to a shine not even a day before — right through his stomach, his heart.

“You are done for the night, Merlin. Do I need to call for the guards?”

And the images of Arthur’s sword in his chest vanish, go up in curling ribbons of smoke as visions of fire take over — the heat that would lick at his feet, wind agonisingly up his calves, his thighs, char the skin until it was black and blistering and burnt—

“No, sire,” Merlin replies, shatters his own train of thought before it breaks him completely. He keeps his tone cordial, meek, _subdued_. “That won’t be necessary, my lord.”

Not that Arthur even looks at him. Just focuses resolutely on the papers beneath his hand as Merlin crosses the room and pulls the double doors shut behind him.

It isn’t until later — until Merlin is back in his own room with the door locked and the window shut, sat in the dark and the silence and the _fear_ — that he realises he is still clutching, desperately, to Arthur’s cape.

—

It is George who escorts him from Arthur’s chambers when he tries to enter the next morning. Dismisses him with a curt gesture and clipped words — _"Your presence is not required by the prince at this time.”_ — and Merlin’s heart turns to stone in his chest, crumbles around itself a second later.

There is little to do now that Arthur does not occupy his time. The citadel is bustling all the same but Merlin stands, uselessly, off to the side. Stares at all the things he has lost. Lost perhaps forever. He wonders how long it will take for Arthur to sentence him. When he will receive news of his exile, his execution. Or if Arthur will simply remove him from his company without another word.

Merlin, in truth, does not know which would be worse.

He does not stay long, after that. Gathers what is left of his pride, his heart, and retreats back to his room. Gaius flags him down the second he enters, halts him with a hand on his arm.

“Merlin, what is it?”

Merlin cannot find the words. Cannot possibly even begin to describe the weight of it all — the pressing, bruising burden on his shoulders. Heavier, now, without Lancelot. Heavier still without Arthur at his side, without his gazes, his gentle teasing, the lingering warmth of his lips when they are afforded privacy. It hasn’t even been two days but Merlin feels the loss, that painful, stubborn ache. Mourning, he supposes, for them both.

“Arthur knows,” he settles on eventually, swallows the rest down alongside his tongue.

He needs not turn to see Gaius’ expression, the furrow of his brows. “Are you certain?“

“He’s all but sacked me, Gaius. He’s barely talked to me since the veil. I didn’t—I pushed him. With my magic.” The sound reverberates in Merlin’s head, the sick thud of Arthur’s skull hitting the floor and he flushes, hot then cold as nausea rises, as guilt squirms slickly in his stomach.

“The veil is a place of powerful magic, Merlin, even if—“

“He knows, Gaius. You should’ve seen the way he looked at me. I’ve never seen him so angry.” It had been more than that, but the words die on his tongue. There had been something like betrayal glinting in Arthur’s eyes, a darker shade of blue than the rest; a prism of reflected emotions and Merlin could only name a few.

“Well have you tried to talk to him—”

“Several times.”

“And it—“

“Ended with him threatening to call for the guards.”

Gaius sighs, long and heavy. His grip remains strong on Merlin’s arm, holds him in place — a comfort and a warning. “Give him time, Merlin. I suppose it must be a rather large shock.”

Idly Merlin wonders whether he should pack. Flee back to Ealdor with his tail between his legs at first light. But his chest clenches at the thought of leaving Arthur, _his_ Arthur, alone and vulnerable and unprotected.

“And if he sentences me?”

“He won’t.” It is so sure, spoken so firmly that Merlin laughs, bitter and hard.

“He hates me now, Gaius, I—“

“Come now, Merlin — regardless of Arthur tells you, you are not an idiot. Even you must see that he could never hate you. I fear he would give up the crown entirely before he let any harm befall you.”

Merlin tugs out of Gaius’ hold, legs tensed and restless and suddenly he cannot bare standing still. “Well, he seems to be doing a fine enough job at that all by himself.”

“Merlin, come—“

The door to his chamber shuts solidly behind him. Cuts the rest of Gaius’ sentence in half. Guilt sits heavily in his chest, tugs at his tongue with the urge to apologise. But to apologise would to mean going back out, away from the safety of his room, the privacy afforded to his tears.

Arthur’s cape is where he left it, half-folded across his pillow, stained a darker crimson with dried blood from their travels. From when Arthur had held Merlin, brushed the grit out of the scrapes from the cobbles where he had fallen, had whispered words he never said in the light of day. Pressed them to Merlin’s hair when he thought him sleeping back before the veil. Before Lancelot’s sacrifice. Before, before, before.

But there is no before. Only now. So Merlin picks up the fabric, cradles it in his hands, and cleans it with murmured words. It ripples gold, briefly, shimmers with all the love Merlin has to offer, with every scrap of his beating, idle heart. It is not much, Merlin knows, but it will keep him safe. Safer than before anyway. Safer than normal if Merlin is sent away.

—

He doesn’t make the mistake of returning to Arthur’s chambers the next morning. Lies in bed instead and watches the sun crest over Camelot’s lower town, split the night in two like the spires from the towers. He hasn’t slept. He can’t decide whether he’s glad of that fact or not. Whether the dreams would be kinder than the reality he is facing, or whether he would close his eyes and see Arthur’s rage, his hatred, see his hand lighting the pyre at Merlin’s feet.

Dawn blazes like fire at his window and he turns towards the darkness.

—

It isn’t until the fifth day that Arthur sends for him. The fifth day of sitting in his chambers with nothing but the shadows and the fear for company. Five days of avoiding Gaius’ questions and clutching the fabric of Arthur’s cape as if it is the last thing he holds dear.

In a way, he supposes it is.

Arthur’s quarters are the same as they always are. Cleaner, if Merlin really looks, and he wonders if this is to be it. If Arthur’s anger will outweigh his dislike of George, if Merlin will sacked, again. Exiled, even. Executed, if Uther’s hatred still resonates strongly enough.

It isn’t a thought he allows himself to dwell on.

“I believe you still have my cape.” Is all Arthur says from where he is reclined uneasily in the chair by the fire. Merlin blinks, once, twice. Clears the fog from his vision and nods, numbly. There is no anger in Arthur’s voice. But there is no softness, either. He sounds bored, disinterested. Indifferent. As if it is not _Merlin_ who stands before him, but rather some nameless face from the crowd of his court.

“Sire, I would like to—“

“See that it’s returned.”

“Sire—“

“That will be all.”

“Arthur!” Merlin snaps and Arthur does turn then, drags his eyes — hard and angry — across Merlin’s form.

“I thought I told you—“

“You’re not _listening_ to me. Please, just—“

“I don’t have to _listen_ to you, _Mer_ lin. I am your king. And after your actions, it’s a wonder you’re still in my service.”

“Then sack me! Just, for gods’ sake, Arthur, please _listen_ to me!”

There’s no reply. Arthur’s eyes swirl like a tempest, catch the light from the fire. Merlin crosses the room on numb legs, anger and fear and something he cannot name tangling in his chest, his stomach, until it feels like he can’t breathe. It tastes, bitterly, like smoke. Like ash.

Kneeling before Arthur he ignores the way his body is trembling in favour of memorising the lines on the floor, the warmth from the fire, the fresh breeze from the window. If this is to be the last time he is Arthur’s company, in his room, then he does not want to forget a thing.

“I am sorry, Arthur. For everything. For lying, for hiding, for—for you finding out like you did. You’re angry. I understand, I do, but _please_ believe me when I say that all I’ve ever done has been for you. Everything I am is for you. I do not expect your forgiveness, but I beg for your mercy.”

“What?” Arthur breathes and Merlin falters, his hands shaking from where they’re resting atop his thighs.

“If you want me—“ _Gods_ , he can’t even say it. Not now Arthur is watching him intently, looking down at him with the weight of the entire kingdom. “If you want me exiled or—or executed I—“

Arthur’s breath catches, sharp. “What _are_ you wittering on about?”

“My—You know about my magic.”

“Yes,” Arthur drawls, slow and confused and Merlin’s knees ache from where they’re pressed against the hard floor.

He dares not lift his eyes, keeps them firmly fixed on Arthur’s boots. “And you’ve made it very clear how you feel about it these last few days, _sire._ ”

Silence echoes across the space, broken only by the faint rustling of the curtains and the crackling of the fire.

Arthur breaks it a minute later. “Has anyone ever told you, _Mer_ lin, just how much of an idiot you truly are?”

“Sire?”

He does not let himself hope, barely lets himself even breathe.

“I’ve known about your magic for _years_. You’re hardly subtle. Really, Merlin, the castle halls are no place to practice.”

“But then why—“

“Because you used it to push me back! Because you were planning on sacrificing yourself and I was helpless to stop you, Merlin!”

Merlin finally looks up, meets Arthur’s gaze. A tapestry of swirling blue, of darker greys where anger and sorrow meet. The mask slips fully from his face and for the first time in five days Merlin can _breathe_ , can feel his lungs shudder back to life under Arthur’s gaze; fearful and indignant and so angry it hurts. But gods above he is looking at _him_ , at Merlin, really looking and—

Arthur’s gaze falters.

“You really think I’d have you executed?” The words are quiet, hurt more than accusatory and Merlin reaches, hesitantly, for Arthur’s hand.

Aborts the motion halfway through.

Arthur completes it for him, laces their fingers together and it is so good, so warm, so _much_ after nearly a week of absence that Merlin’s eyes burn.

“You were angry. I assumed it was because of—“ he stops, trails off. Arthur squeezes his hand, gentle but firm. He continues. “I didn’t know what you were capable of.”

“I was angry, _Mer_ lin, because you seem to be hell-bent on sacrificing yourself at every damn chance you get.”

“Your life is—“

“More important than yours, yes, Merlin, so you’ve said. But has it ever occurred to you that _yours_ is more important to _me_?”

It had. Had crossed his mind more times than he could count recently. It was something that he had never accounted for. Not in his wildest dreams. It had been his destiny, and really, he was starting to hate that word, to protect Arthur no matter what the cost. Be it personal or collateral. It had never been Arthur’s to do the same for him.

These are thoughts he doesn’t give voice to. Lets them rest heavily in the silence, in the way his fingers tighten around Arthur’s. “I will not let you die, Arthur.”

Arthur exhales, slow and heavy and his hand shifts in Merlin’s as he leans back, crosses his legs at the ankle.

The fire spits in the hearth, the wind beating at the windows, shrieking like the dorocha had. Like the veil had. Cold in the same way it had been then, that drifting gale as Lancelot had—

Guilt surges in Merlin’s stomach, floods his mouth. Runs in rivulets from his eyes to his chin. “Lancelot is dead because of me.”

Arthur stills. “Merlin—“

“He knew what I was planning. He knew I would never let you— he knew and he sacrificed himself so I wouldn’t have to. It’s my fault, I—“

“Lancelot is dead, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur interrupts, and they both ignore the way his voice breaks around the name, “because of _me_. I led that mission. I asked him to make a promise to me—“

“Because he knew what I was to do!”

They are going round in circles. They will remain here, Merlin knows, until the candles are nothing but puddles of wax, until the fire has burnt its fuel to ash. His knees ache, bone pressed hard against the tile and he shifts, tries to alleviate the pressure. He isn’t sure he’s permitted to touch Arthur yet. But he wants to, desperately. Wants to allow himself a moment of weakness, for the events of the last week to catch up with him — to cry against Arthur’s chest in the warmth of his chambers.

“Gods, Merlin, come _here_.”

Arthur always had been too good at reading him; he would curse him for it if his touch wasn’t so soothing even in its harshness, pulling him up and forward until he can bury his face against the soft material of Arthur’s tunic, tuck his nose between his sternum and stomach.

He half-expects a taunt, a jest at his tears, the small, choked noises he cannot bite back, some remnant of his anger, perhaps. He does not expect Arthur’s fingers to gently comb through his hair, brush against his scalp. Nor does he expect his words, the tone of his voice so _soft_ and reverent that his heart splinters further.

“You are precious to me, Merlin, in ways I cannot express. Never think, even for a moment, that I would knowingly hurt you. I would sooner die myself.”

In all the years he has known Arthur, Merlin has never heard him speak so openly, so gently. Perhaps it is the fact that they cannot see each other that gives them both such confidence. Casts a spell around the scene, a shimmering veil of something almost tangible.

Magic thrums through Merlin’s veins in answer, reaches, desperately, for Arthur. Always for Arthur. He pushes it back instinctively, swallows down the urge before he remembers Arthur’s words — the fond, exasperated tone.

_"I’ve known about your magic for_ years _.”_

In a rush Merlin lets it go, lets it flow across his skin, melt the shadows in his heart, soothe that bruised, crushing ache across his chest. Lets it trail further to Arthur, curl gently around his fingers, still buried in Merlin’s hair, wind up his arms, settle softly, as softly as he can manage, at his chest.

Arthur’s breath catches.

It reaches for Arthur’s head, weaves around his neck until it rests at the back of his skull, runs gentle ripples across the place it had hit the ground, vanishes the remnants of the almost healed bruise.

“If you ever use your magic against me again, Merlin, I will not be so forgiving. It is my duty to protect you as much as you feel it is yours to protect me. I will not allow you to go anywhere that I can’t follow.”

Merlin swallows his retort. Knows he is toeing a fragile line, a razor’s edge, knows, intimately now, the aching chasm of loss beneath his feet. The absence of Arthur in his life a wound that he fears would never heal. It is not something he can risk again, not so soon. Not now he is nestled partially in Arthur’s arms, pressed close enough against him to smell the sharp scent of soap. He smells clean — freshly washed and warm. Clean from a bath Merlin didn’t run, clean from soap that Merlin didn’t provide, clean from water Merlin didn’t dry from him. He wonders if George undressed him, too. Slipped his armour from his shoulders, trailed hands down his arms, his chest his—

Arthur’s arms curl around his waist, encourages him up and closer, impossibly closer, until Merlin’s seated firmly in his lap, until he can feel Arthur’s heartbeat against his own chest, and his train of thought shatters. Dims until the only thing in his mind is a steady stream of _Arthur Arthur Arthur._

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and Arthur’s hold tightens momentarily.

“As am I.”

“I didn’t mean—“

“Tomorrow,” Arthur interrupts and drags his hand from Merlin’s waist to his hair, cradles the back of his head in a single palm. “We will finish this tomorrow when you see that my cape is returned.”

Despite himself, Merlin smiles against Arthur’s shoulder, his tunic soft against his lips. “You’re dismissing me?”

Arthur scoffs. “Do you _look_ dismissed, Merlin?” and holds him tighter, tugs at his hair gently for good measure.

“I thought you had George to tend to your every whim,“ Merlin teases and Arthur huffs.

“ _George_ ,” he starts, “hardly has your ability to warm my bed.”

“Oh that’s all I am, is it? A royal bed warmer?”

“ _Royal_? Always getting ideas above your station, aren’t you?”

The jibe startles a laugh from Merlin, the first genuine amusement he’s felt in over a week. Light and warm and bright as it spills across his chest.

“Prat,” he murmurs, muffles the word against Arthur’s neck just to feel his pulse jump.

Gods, he has missed this. Missed the way Arthur’s body moulds around his own, the strength coiled in his arms, the warmth, the undeniable sense of _safety._ It is foolish, he knows, to let his guard down like this. To close his eyes against Arthur’s heartbeat, against the gentle rush of his breaths, like tides against the shore. To pretend that Uther isn’t just a few rooms away, that the servants aren’t bustling around the citadel with chores that could bring them to Arthur’s chambers at any time.

But it isn’t until Arthur shifts, presses a kiss to the crown of his head that Merlin blinks and comes back to himself. Starts to piece together the words Arthur is saying.

“—fire is going out. Really, Merlin, what do I pay you for?”

Merlin smiles, slow and lazy. “Warming your bed, apparently.”

“Something else you’re not currently doing.”

Under his breath, a habit he isn’t sure he is ever going to be able to break, Merlin relights the fire with a murmured _"Bærn”_. When he looks away from the hearth he realises Arthur’s eyes are on his, watching with such a soft intensity that Merlin forgets, momentarily, how exactly to breathe.

Before he can ask Arthur thumbs gently beneath his eye. “Beautiful.”

The compliment startles Arthur as much as it does Merlin; his mouth closing a second later, a flush trailing its way across his cheeks, down his neck. Merlin delights in the sight.

“Don’t,” he warns before Merlin can tease him and Merlin’s words devolve into a smile, tired and worn. Arthur kisses it away, cradles Merlin’s jaw until he falls pliant beneath his hands, soft and open and willing. He whines when Arthur pulls away, an aborted sound he doesn’t quite manage to catch in time.

“George will be bringing dinner shortly. Try and make yourself look useful, would you? Gods know there are enough rumours around the castle to last centuries.”

“Centuries? Your arrogance truly knows no bounds.”

Arthur glares at him. There’s no heat in it. “Chores, _Mer_ lin, _now._ ”

“Yes, _sire_.”

He forces his legs to move, to reach the floor beneath him. They’re numb now from sitting for so long, for sitting curled up in Arthur’s lap no less and the thought would embarrass some baser part of himself if he wasn’t so tired, drained, _relieved_ to be here, in Arthur’s company.

“Start with the bed. It’s been too cold recently.”

_Without you_ goes unsaid. Merlin hears it anyway. Shuts the windows and pulls the furs across the mattress to trap what little heat there is. It will be warmer after George brings dinner — two servings, Arthur will insist — when Merlin will slip beneath the quilts, pile the furs back on top. Watch, silently, as Arthur paces the length of the floor, spins his ring around and around and around. A type of quiet companionship, broken only by the soft sounds of their breaths and the way Merlin murmurs Arthur’s name, lifts up the blankets in invitation.

And later, in the night when the moon is high and fractured, splintered into a crescent shard, when Arthur turns, folds himself over Merlin like another fur, Merlin feigns sleep. Keeps his breath steady and his eyes closed to feel the way Arthur’s fingers skim down his face, trace the line of his cheek, the way he noses, gently, at his temple. Whispers, as soft as the moonlight, the words that Merlin knows he cannot — will not — speak in the day.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved magic reveal fics, but I've always loved when Arthur already knows and Merlin is oblivious to it. I took this a step further, because why not? As always, please consider leaving a comment or kudos if you enjoyed <3 Thank you.


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